


When your otp doesn't want to be imagined.

by loboto



Category: Ace Attorney
Genre: Implied Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loboto/pseuds/loboto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He slumps, and he breathes. Drains himself, or, at least, tries to. Of the panic. And the pictures. He just feels really. fucking. sick.</em><br/>--------<br/>An short unfinished drabble for a prompt from a bad influence. Daryan Crescend is trapped in a hotel en-suite bathroom and there's something going on behind the door that he's never wanted to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When your otp doesn't want to be imagined.

He feels like a shaken bottle, a rush of _fuck fuck fuck_ piercing through his gut, bending round, up his spine, his head flooding with sparkling water. It’s making him numb, yes, but it tastes fucking awful and it throws him off balance and he’s got one last unmuted mind to open the door and stagger out there; stop them. But, he doesn’t. He slumps, and he breathes. Drains himself, or, at least, tries to. Of the panic. And the pictures. He just feels really. fucking. sick.

It’s one way to spend a Friday night, he thinks, bruising like a stress relief ball. Blonde hair, unclear who’s, spikes his eye and it feels as dry as the back of his throat but his brother quickly moves, continues to, so it’s quickly peeled away. Klavier’s phone screen remains pathetically dark, the same shade of black shadowing the rock bottom something inside him has dropped to tonight.

There’s toilet paper shoved into his ears now, deep enough to cause him pain if he grinned. Bitten nails claw into the dry skin patched around his forehead and temple. Shaking hands rake through his ponytailed hair, yank the tie out, loop through it into a prayer- then move back, outwards, straining the elastic. They move so two thumbs grab from the inside, hands in fists. He pulls and he pulls and he breathes and he pulls. With one defiant tug and an almost grunt it snaps. He’s still pulling, still relying on that force pushing back against him, holding him back like he used to, so his fists fly sideways-on into the walls (this room had to be smaller), thumping loud, vibrating up, shaking the mirror to his left. The glass, adorned with lipstick marks and eyeliner messages (you’re gonna slay them all, gavin x) teases him, wobbles slightly, as if to fall. It doesn't. The shatter would have been nice, he thinks. 

A beat comes from the en-suite in between Klavier Gavin’s rhythmic hisses. He wants to investigate, ingrained urge, but he won’t. Why would you?

He flips both taps on in some determinedly defeated gesture. The sink fills up with sound. Daryan lets the water take strikes against the back of his head.

Klavier hears running water, and stills. Kristoph has never looked more like his father.

The basin is full, and his head hasn't moved. Poorly dyed hair pans out on the surface of the water as his nose brushes against the bottom surface, against the plug. Vein boasting hands, braced on the sides, pale as they tighten with ticks, with gears, like a programmed vice. Tighter. And tighter. And tighter.


End file.
